Perpetual Travesty
by Morning Dew
Summary: OneShot! A malevolent, wrathful spirit has been haunting Brooklyn and its fledglings for years now. What dire deeds will be commited when the spirit finds residence in the body of a spiteful newsie?


**Disclaimer: **No, no, sillies! Spot Conlon doesn't belong to me however much I may wish this to be true. *grins* But all the other characters do. 

**A.N: **This was born from boredom and a pressing to desire to simply write something. Perhaps I'll be inspired to finish my other works now that I've fueled up my confounded muses. 

**~*Travesty*~**

Even though as inaudible as the fall of snowflakes upon a glass-paned window, Spot Conlon could still detect that ever-present sound lingering throughout the moaning wood of the Brooklyn lodging house where near penniless newsboys found boarding. It was an eerie disturbance, like the footsteps of a stalker behind the unsuspecting child, and sent chills down his spine whenever it made its presence known. Thrice in one day had it visited his private room on the second floor of the apparently haunted building, and this time his cloak of suaveness would remain hung at the doorstep, for the leader of the Brooklyn newsies would not falsely proclaim that he was unscathed. 

            His sharp blue eyes steadily scanned the parameters of his room, trying to discern just one careless movement on his prey's part. Locks of silken sandy-blonde hair rested patiently onto his pillow while he continued this game of espionage, his hands ready to reach out for the slingshot on the nightstand aside him should he require retaliation. 

            The presence of this disguised enemy was very much unwelcome, and Spot felt quite discomforted at the notion of sharing his room with something of supernatural substance. Assuming it was supernatural, of course. But what else could it be? The blasted entity walked on the feet of the dead, its ghostlike proclivities characteristic of some foul spirit seeking to delve into devilry – a certain mischief that would result in the casualties of innocent newsboys. 

            Spot would have nothing of it. This phantom, this wraith, this knave-like apparition would find its end! In a sudden surge of defiance, the Brooklyn leader jumped to his feet in one quick movement akin to that of a cat's and glared at the walls making up his quarters. "What is it you want!" he yelled to the nothingness. 

            And of course, he received no answer. 

~*~*~*~*~

            Three and a half days later, the phantom would strike again. It was on a seemingly calm February morning when the cool breeze of the body of water beside which the Brooklyn lodging house was situated did more to soothe one's soul than upset physical temperatures. Spot Conlon stood at Pier 23, his frame tall and proud like any intrepid warriors, but his countenance one of worry and concern. The atmosphere about tasted bitter to his senses; something was awfully wrong. 

            A few piers down upon discarded fish crates now void of the contents they'd once been brimming with sat a certain group of Brooky's – as the Brooklyn newsies liked to call themselves- discussing of all possible things the very Bible. Though it wasn't uncommon to unearth believers among those from the most austere of boroughs, it was still almost surreal to see such people practicing out their faith in public, for many had come to accept the notion that grotesquely emotional attachments to religion only served to weaken one's otherwise intimidating presence to other newsies across the state. 

            Of course, this group couldn't care less about like matters. They were too consumed with their merriment. Among their ranks were Runner Conlon (younger cousin and likely successor to Spot Conlon), Dewey Rembrandt (who unbeknownst to the others engaged in a clandestine relationship with the Brooklyn leader), Gospel (the young preacher in the group), and several others representing all the age groups in Brooklyn. 

            "God is good," Gospel remarked, a most pleased grin upon his face, for just that morning, Second-Story and Runt had professed a desire to obtain this _mustard seed faith_ of which so many spoke. He turned to a passage in the New Testament, and began reading to the others the words of an acclaimed Apostle. 

            No one knew of the internal anarchy boiling within a fellow newsboy just yards away from the blessed scene. Conscience was an unruly mess since his first day of having joined the Brooklyn brigade. Everything about him was ominous…his dark gossamer hair and equally dark eyes…and that malevolent nature which he so proudly flaunted about, how it struck fear into those he called his companions. He was spiteful, having come from a broken home, and fueled disastrous tendencies bordering on the thin lines of life and fatality. He'd once known the love of a God, had once felt the gentle caress of a spirit in union with all things holy…but such days were ages behind him and such holiness a desecrated wasteland in his mind. 

            He paced upon the docks, his hands buried into the pockets of his pants, his face a clear mask of the battle against which he fought so feverishly. He didn't _want_ to do it; truly he had no idea how the damned notions had even settled into his mind. But hard as he tried to shake them from his thoughts like rustling dead leaves from an autumn tree, they yet remained. 

            _You will do my bidding_, spoke the sinister voice. _Are you a coward now, to back out at the moment of our victory? _

"I'm not a coward!" Conscience hissed at the spirit that had for so long haunted him. "But what ya ask 'a me is daft! Why do I have ta kill 'em. They're completely harmless…_harmless_!" 

            _Harmless!_ It now set to chiding and belittling him. What did a mortal know of such affairs, anyhow! This damned boy was nothing more than an idiotic marionette to his likewise damned puppet-master. _You will do as you are told. Take the gun into your hands, walk over to those wretched guttersnipes, and rid __Brooklyn__ of their incessant optimistic chatter. What has their faith ever done for you in any case? You remain as foul as the fragments of excrement you were upon birth. The least you can do is make a name for yourself instead of ever-wallowing in the cesspool of your own decadence. _

            Conscience winced at the harsh words; they even brought hot tears to his eyes. Perhaps he had once known them for the lies they were, but he'd reached a point in which he ravenously sought something to sustain him, and the spirit for which he was a host provided a nourishment that, though foul, obliterated the shackles of loneliness that had for years kept him enslaved. 

            The gun was in his pocket. He fingered its cool, silver frame with the utmost hesitancy as his eyes remained glued onto Gospel and the rest. "But they've invited me into their circle several times," he tried. 

            _Only because they knew you would refuse such foolhardy invitations. _

"They treated me with kindness at times when I only knew hate."

            _Their faith is dead without works. Such actions were only for their self-benefit and only to further blazon the religion they pursue. Had they no audience, they would treat you like the worthless sewer rat you are. _

"But even when I was alone, Gospel would always be there…even if it was just ta listen…"

            The spirit was growing restless. Indecisiveness was something it greatly loathed, but it would not see its potency destroyed by the questioning of a mere child. _Get on with it already!_ It barked. _Don't you know I could bestow upon you the finest luxuries? Three meals a day instead of your measly one, a wardrobe of garments instead of threadbare breeches and shirts, and fame, Conscience. Fame that will endure for centuries! You're not an ordinary person that you should see justice upon killing these fools! You have me, don't you understand?_

            "But…"

            _Go! _said the spirit, its voice now coated with honey to tickle the boy's ears and blandish his musings. _Go, before I abandon you. Then you will have no one again. You will be more lonely than the hobo begging for pennies on the streets. _

            That was enough to have Conscience take the initial steps toward the newsies he was set to murder, and alas with each step, his doubts concerning this disgusting malefaction reduced to a whimsy pallid air he would never again find. The walk to Gospel's circle seemed to take an eternity, his feet like echoing drumbeats in his ears, his heart hammering madly within his chest. Beads of sweat graced his tanned forehead like gems stolen from the underworld, and once he'd reached the circle of congregating friends, his breath had begun to come out in pants. 

            Gospel smiled good-naturedly at the new addition. "Heya, Conscience! Would ya like ta join us?" He motioned for the others to make room in the circle for the boy.

            Conscience neither accepted the invitation, nor denied it. He simply stood before them, his eyes distant as he held the firearm behind his back, debating… debating… debating…

            _Melchizedek grinned upon seeing his blessed counterpart. For the moment disengaging with Conscience's body to confront the Angel of Light. "Well, well, well. Dear Isaiah. I didn't know you were still enlisted into spiritual warfare." The spirit that had been haunting Brooklyn newsies for the past months now evolved into a beautiful Dark Angel, his wings made up of the faces of the shrieking damned, his appearance striking but deadly, and his voice like that of a snake's. _

            **Isaiah rose from where he had been sitting between Gospel and Dewey and looked sadly upon Melchizedek. It always pained him to confront one of those brethren who'd been downcast before the age of ****Man.**** "Why do you do this? He seeks salvation, not the dark propaganda of your deadly bite."**

_The Dark Angel only shrugged. "It was his choice all along. I fed him lies, but he knew the truth from childhood."_

**"Do you rejoice in what you do?"**

_His countenance changed, and he showed himself in his true ghastly appearance, a manifestation so nightmare-inducing in nature that even the wildest of dreamers had yet to fathom the true wickedness of Hell's creatures. "It is my only purpose now…all that remains for me…"_

**"But you once had a choice as his own," Isaiah answered him, light radiating off his wings and white robes as he basked in true glory. "And now you must allow him to decide for himself which road he will traverse. The prayers of his friends now shield him from your deceit."**

_Melchizedek did not seem fazed. "Very well, then. We shall play this ridiculous round of roulette. His mind's too convoluted to discern truth from fallacy anyhow." He folded his wings gracefully and plopped himself against a pier, watching on with amusement as Conscience fiddled with the gun behind his back. _

            Runner Conlon arched an eyebrow at the boy's behavior. "Uh, Conscience? You there?" He smiled and laughed lightly when Conscience awoke from his daydreaming state with a start. 

            "Oh, sorry," the boy quickly spewed. "I…uhm…"

            "Would you like to join us?" It was Dewey who'd asked the question. She even arose from her own crate, gesturing toward the boy to take her seat should he like to become a part of their fellowship. "Conscience?"

            _Foolish girl_, whined Melchizedek. _He's already my slave. You can do no service to him now_. He continued to watch the mortals, knowing they were oblivious to his presence and his words. Waiting with glee for the sound of the gunshot, he only then looked worriedly to Conscience, only to see the boy on the brink of sitting down to join the confounded camaraderie! _Conscience! You worthless traitor! If you even *think* about feeding upon their fleeting words, I shall slaughter you myself!_

            "**I order you to silence!" Isaiah gave the Dark Angel an authoritative look, the words booming from one aura to the next. "The choice is his, and his alone. You no longer play a part, fallen one." **

Conscience tottered back into an abyss of stinging memories. His mother touching him in a way no son should feel…his father beating him with broken beer bottles, wooden bats, and belts. The first time he delved into hallucinating substances and woke up one evening with bloodied wrists, the time he'd helped a friend rob a small restaurant and then watched in horror as that friend was shot five times in the head by the prepared salesclerk. He saw flashes of times when he was chased endlessly by the police, of when he had to eat the banana peels and rotting fish bones from garbage cans to appease his hunger, the pain that destroyed him whenever he had to sell himself off to older men if only to pocket a nickel here and there. 

            The anger raged within him uncontrollably until like a phoenix it burst forth from its pyre and lashed out angrily at those around. With tears rolling down his almost apologetic face, he brought before him the gun, a shaking hand holding it to aim with Gospel's head. Here was to all the times he'd been let down in life, to all the times he'd vainly reached out for a friend, for all the times in which he had been forsaken. It was his decision, and his alone. 

            He pulled the trigger, his deliverance into a world of woe. Melchizedek rejoiced gladly, reveling in the death of one of God's young evangelists. "_Now the other ones!"_ He announced in a sing-song voice to his damned host. "_He will_ _kill them off as well!" _But something that hadn't been calculated happened. 

            Upon seeing the lifeless body of Gospel, one who had never failed in showing him love, sprawled across the docks onto a steadily flowing pool of blood…upon hearing the horror-stricken screams erupting into the air and seeing the looks of dread replace those faces that had moments earlier wanted to receive him into their company…Conscience realized belatedly his terrible mistake. How could he ever redeem himself for such a sin?

            A life for a life…

            That was the philosophy riddling his mind. He took away Gospel's life; it was only understandable that he should die as well. He reversed the gun's position and held the pistol to his own temple. 

            _Melchizedek shrieked. "You blasted fool! What are you doing?" After all, without the boy, he would be deprived of a host, and though the self-slaughter was enough to make his having adulterated the boy's mind something to be rejoiced for amongst his kind, the Dark Angel still snarled at having more so been bereft of the martyrdoms of those believers remaining behind. "Put…the…gun…"_

            It was too late. Conscience had pulled the trigger. Too great was his sorrow and turmoil. It wasn't seconds before his spirit ascended from the mortal coil of his corpse, and when he at last received the chance to look upon the one who'd been possessing him since his early teens, he only felt the need to despair. "Why did you do this to me?" he asked. "You knew all along the end I would meet…" 

            _Melchizedek's disposition was one of indifference. "Dwell now in your idiocy. Did you ever think I held your best interest at heart? Nay, you continuously confused me with a wrathful angel who would grant you redemption."_

            Conscience felt every need to throw himself onto his knees and sob, but now of the spirit, he was incapable of human conditions. He watched then as a spirit cloaked in unearthly garments of flashing white, a most beautiful creature whose momentary materialization upon the earth was a hundredfold more awe-inspiring than the greatest works ever produced from both Nature and Art, took residence beside the spirit rising from Gospel's deceased flesh. It was an angel…a gentle winged immortal without flaw and with voice as harmonious as the strings of a harp, or the bells of church towers. It took Gospel's hand gently, and with a smile, began leading the boy toward another who awaited at the end of a golden pathway stretching toward the heavens. 

            Conscience started forward, but was held back by the fetters of his own choices. "Please!" he begged of the one awaiting Gospel's arrival into heaven. "Please, save me!"

            But he knew even as he screamed the words that his only salvation had escaped from his hands like sand between his fingers…his chance was forever gone. 

            "Oh, that I had accepted the truth before it was too late…"

            He hadn't the opportunity to finish his wishful thinking. The shrieking dead had come for him. 

~*~*~*~*~

_A.N: Well now. That was certainly different, lol. Feel free to leave a review!_


End file.
